


I Saw A Rainbow And I Painted It RED

by Owlprah (Penkindisbestspecibus)



Series: The Argent Bay Chronicles [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Action/Adventure, Bad Things Happen To Everyone, Blood and Violence, Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt, Modern Era, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Superheroes, Superpowers, Supervillains, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 19:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4275327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penkindisbestspecibus/pseuds/Owlprah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He rolled the cigarette between his teeth, inhaling softly and letting the smoke fill his lungs. It was poison, but that had never mattered to him. Wouldn’t matter. Couldn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter? Decisions.</p><p>“I’m a monster. You’re a monster. Face it, Manny. We’re all monsters here.” He let the cigarette fall from his teeth, ground it under his impeccably shined shoe. Gucci, not that either of them cared. “We might not have been born monsters, but that’s what we’ve become so you might as well embrace it. You know, before I kill you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Saw A Rainbow And I Painted It RED

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo! This is just a piece of original fiction, set in an original universe that I hope will eventually become a proper published novel. The Chronicles will mostly be of relatively related-but-not-quite stories to the actual thing. Side characters, background things, that sort of dealio.
> 
> Plus this can gauge interest in the world and my writing in general.

It was dark. Damp. Cold. The wind whistled and it howled and screamed and screeched, rattled doors and windows, but even here it was silent. It could not speak here, dare not make a noise, nor stir even the gentlest of clothes. Here, where even the stars averted their gaze behind the clouds, where the moon turned away to avoid even catching a glimpse of what lay below… it was here he remained. It was a place devoid of joy or happiness, where colour fled to happier lands. The only thing that seemed to come was the rain, and even that did not stay for long, splattering against the tin roof and dripping down run away.

Was God crying at the sight of him, he wondered? Nay. God would not cry for the likes of him, a miserable wretch, kept alive only by the graces of his owners.

Here, with his back pressed up against the straw they graciously provided for him to rest upon, here where they delivered to him the scraps of their meals out of the kindness of their hearts. This where he belonged. No other place would take in a monster like him. A horrid thing, that had killed his mother, the very being that brought life to him. And he had spat upon her gift with blood and bile.

 

The door did not creak when opened. It too held it’s breath, for as it swung open, forced by greasy hands, a rakishly handsome fellow stepped in. The boy on the straw tilted his head, a small inclining, not as much an acknowledgement as it were a thing of habit, and routine. The man sneered, and his handsome, aristocratic face twisted and crumpled with the expression. He was right to sneer, the boy thought. To smile at him would be a lie, an insult to human decency.

He said no words. Words were wasted on a beast. He simply began to punish him. Punish him for his continued existence, the continued blight and plague that he was on their family. This wretched miserable creature that had killed their dear Mother, and continued to remind them of that fact, forever a trophy of all that she was and could have been.

The rake did not use tools like his sister and father. He preferred the feeling of flesh bruising under his knuckles, as was his right to choose. He did not deign to bend over or haul him up, not even to bark an order. He simply began to kick him, sharp and furious, steel-toed boot burying into his side over and over.

 

Pain burst into being, his old friend quick to worm it’s way into every fiber of his being. It was right that he was in pain. Pain would make him sorry, apologetic. Pain was his penance. Every sharp lance was an apology. An apology to his Mother, for taking her life where he should have died. An apology to his Family, for robbing them of her light and replacing it with darkness. An apology to God, for defying his will and simply refusing to die.

He was seeing stars now, but he knew they were false. Stars did not bear witness to his atonement. He only lolled his head and received his due. The rake was cursing now, loud and harsh. “Sorry.” He mumbled, throat dry from the water they did not waste on him. “’M sorry.” His words only served to infuriate the rake further. He was not sorry. If he was truly penitent, then he would die.

Even as ribs broke and tore through flesh, even as the rake began to throttle him, spittle forming at his lips in righteous fury, even then he did not die. Even then he continued to insult them. After what felt like forever, the rake grew tired and spat in his face before stumbling off, likely to a steaming bath and a hot dinner, and the boy was left to stare at the roof, bruises on his throat and shattered ribs slowly, but definitely healing visibly.

 

He was still alive. Why was he still alive? It was his dearest wish to die. His insulting existence brought to an end, it would only be right. So why… why was he still alive? Was he not penitent enough? Was he not sorry enough? Was his apology not enough? Aye. That was it, wasn’t it? He wasn’t sorry enough. He wanted his penance not out of true repentance or remorse, but out of selfishness. He wanted the pain to end. Even now, as bones clicked and snapped, as ruptured blood vessels knitted together, even now it still hurt.

Hurt. It hurt. Why did he have to hurt? He was sorry, wasn’t he? He wanted it to stop. Make it stop. Stop. _Stop_.

 

_**STOP!** _

 

The wind began to whistle gently. The droning of harsh rain mellowed out into a soft pitter patter, gently splishing against the corrugated roof, apologetic and suddenly aware of how loud it had been, now contrite and quiet. There was a stillness, a silence in the air that differed from before, as the world held it’s breath.

 

He didn’t hurt anymore.

 

It dawned on him slowly, reminding him of the golden syrup he had once seen the Damsel pour on her food - pancakes, she had called them before snidely informing him that they were not food fit for a horrid creature such as himself. Such thoughts were quickly dispelled in favour of his growing awareness that the feeling of pain that had existed throughout his life, sometimes deadened and dull, other times sharp and demanding but omnipresent all the same… was gone. It felt odd in ways he couldn’t rightly describe - it was as though he’d been leaning on it, almost relying on it. Pain had been a part of his existence. Pain had been a part of him. Pain was who he was.

Pain was gone now.

Was he dead? No. He can’t be dead. If he was dead then he’d be in… Heaven? Hell? Where did monsters go? He didn’t know. Maybe they didn’t go anywhere. He hauled himself up slowly, cautiously. He expected jolts of pain to flare, burn through his body and remind him of his penance, but nothing came.

Had he been forgiven? Was it over? Had God finally nodded with grim finality and closed the book on his sin? Pain was his penance. If Pain had been taken away… then his penance was over. He had been forgiven. He stared at his pale hands, flecked with blood and dirt in amazement and wonder. And then he laughed. It bubbled up within him, frothy and rich, spilling out from his lips uncontrollably. He had been forgiven!

 

“What’s all this racket? You filthy creature, you know better!” He turned his head to the Damsel who struck him sharply across his face. Her hands smelled faintly of spices and poultry - she had been cooking dinner, still wearing her apron and holding a cleaver. He turned his head to her, grinning wide and innocently despite the reddening cheek of his face. She seemed taken aback by his actions, accustomed to his submission instead of… this. “It doesn’t hurt.” He confessed, stumbling to his feet, a little unevenly but buoyed by elation and joy. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. God has forgiven me.”

She sneered at him. Why was she sneering? This was a happy day, wasn’t it? “God won’t forgive a wretched thing like you.” She slapped him again, harder, determined to show him his rightful place but her hands had no sting and his cheeks moved but felt nothing. “You’re a horrible little monster and you will always be a horrible little monster. God spits on you. He loathes you. That’s why your miserable existence is filled with pain, so that you can repent for your sins.”

 

That… that didn’t make sense. The pain had ended. That meant he didn’t have to repent anymore. Why was she still telling him he had to repent? He stared at her in confusion, wide unblinking brown eyes, unnerving her enough to make her step back. “Ah. I understand. It’s like that, isn’t it?” The Damsel nodded primly, dropping the smattering of kitchen scraps that would form his meal for the night. “You need to repent your sins as well.” His words, spoken innocently and cheerfully froze her in her tracks as she turned to leave.

She whirled around to demand an explanation, but the distance between them had already been covered. She went to backhand him away, but he caught her wrist in his pale, slender hands, gripping her tightly with a strength his malnourished form shouldn’t have possessed. “It’s okay. You helped me repent for my sins.” He declared, smiling up at her. Terror filled her form and she wanted to scream but she found her breath stolen by that very same fear. “I’ll help you repent for yours.” His hand clenched. Bones snapped. Pain returned her breath.

 

She screamed.

* * *

The House was burning. A lamp had been knocked over when the Rake and his Father had tried to stop him. He didn’t understand. Were they afraid? He supposed they must be. Pain was… well, it was pain. It wasn’t pleasant. But sins had to be repented for. That’s what they had taught him. They had been forgiven by God as well, taken into his kindly embrace. He wondered why he hadn’t, at least for a little bit.

That he had been left to live instead of dying, surely it was a sign from God? His purpose seemed fairly clear cut then. There must be sinners who needed to repent in the world. He supposed he would help them. He laughed again, soft and tinkling as he reveled in the crunching of snow under his bare feet. It felt good. He felt free.

 

God had forgiven him, and given a monster like him purpose in life.


End file.
